Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Miguel wakes up to a feeling like there’s an itch against his back—the pinprick feeling of someone watching him.

The guy is still there, then.

Soft rustling over his shoulder—noises of a body across the balmy motel room—seem to confirm the fact as Miguel blinks away his bleariness.

A lint pill-covered pillow scratches his cheek as he takes in the sand-textured white wall in front of him. The rest of the world lies at his back, where the sweat on his skin has cooled.

There’s a single, thin bed sheet draped over him like a blanket, covering his naked body—placed over his waist by somebody else.

Behind Miguel, he hears the sound of a seat creaking, and there’s a moment before he rolls over where he feels a jolt to his system—something like curiosity and cautious excitement mixing together.

“Didn’t expect you to stick around,” he admits as he turns, sitting up.

His eyes take a confusing moment to find the other man in the room, and in the process, his gaze flits over the rest of the drab but tidy space.

There’s an open window across the motel room that draws his eye because it’s open into an alleyway that is utterly devoid of light. Outside, it’s still night, opaque in its inky darkness.

Shit, Miguel thinks at the revelation, a rush of heat to his cheeks; he usually doesn’t pass out like that—doesn’t crash, pure exhaustion wiping him out after the rush of his orgasm. But he remembers… gasping. Remembers the sweet release of tension from his body, and the static roar, his tingling scalp. Falling dazedly onto the bed, gratification making his bones feel liquid.

A yellowish domed light in the center of the room beside the bed flickers, a couple of dead insects specking the glass from the inside. The bathroom, with its greenish fluorescent light that had cast his gaunt body in ugly shadow as he’d undressed to shower earlier, is a darkened doorway that Miguel peripherally observes as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. And across the room, sitting in a wooden chair between the door and that window that had drawn Miguel’s eyes, is the man who’d introduced himself as Guerra.

Miguel stares, and Guerra stares back, gaze serene and dark.

He sits with one leg hiked up as he smokes a cigarette, elbow propped on his knee and his dick nestled soft in the dark hairs between his legs as he balances a stark white ashtray on his tan thigh.

He looks like a statue, lounging with all the stillness of a jaguar waiting to ambush, but blurry memories of ecstasy flash through Miguel’s mind in broad, impressionistic strokes, and he knows—the recollection of strong hands against his pliant body threatening to color his face—that Guerra hadn’t been at all slow and measured. Hadn’t been cold.

Holding Miguel’s gaze, the corner of Guerra’s mouth suddenly quirks up.

Frankly, he hadn’t been the one Miguel had set his hopes on at the top of the night, either. Nah, that honor had gone to an older blonde woman with big tits who he’d clocked as an American looking to have a good time down south. Guerra’s interest had come as a welcome surprise, though. Welcome, because a bigger guy than Miguel had zeroed in on the American, but he’s tired of sleeping on the streets, so the fact that Guerra’d been more than happy to play backup plan was lucky as hell. And he’s a surprise, too, because… Blowjobs for a quick buck? Yeah, Miguel had started to do that even before hopping the border. Has let a couple guys blow him, too, if that was their thing.

Ain’t proud of it, but who’s gonna tell?

Women take a lot longer to charm—to convince to take Miguel back somewhere with them, and if he pushes too hard, he knows his face is one that’ll stick out in their memory when they complain about him—and not in that ruggedly handsome way he’d always relied on growing up, either. Nah, there’s that scar on his face. Matches his FBI’s Most Wanted profile.

He hasn’t full on, like, slept with a guy since he was in high school, though, going out of his mind that summer stuck down in fucking Miami with his tía, and Guerra isn’t the type Miguel would’ve expected to approach him, anyway.

He hadn’t looked like the type, not even when he’d sidled up to Miguel at the bar—had asked him with an all too knowing smirk: How much?

Average height and build, long-haired and scruffy-faced, he’d been wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves ripped off, white tanktop sweat-stained beneath it. There’d been a peculiar scent around him, too. A smell of smoke—not cigarette, either, but similarly acrid, mixed with something faintly musty and herbal—wet and cool, like earth.

Miguel’d had half the mind to snort and push away from the counter at the question, his neck burning at the bluntness of it, but then Guerra had smiled and it had transformed his face, bringing out pleasant crow’s feet and narrowing his almond eyes into happy, familiar curves. The expression had made Miguel realise that the guy wasn’t much older than him, and there’d been something about that fact which had made him fucking homesick. Had swept away that instinct to blow the guy off.

“I paid for the room,” Guerra replies defiantly. “Why would I leave?” His voice is scratchy from smoke, gaze unwavering.

Above them, the ceiling light seems to buzz… or maybe that’s another insect, trapped inside the warmth of the glass, plinking against it with no concept of how it got inside—no idea how to escape.

The light flickers.

Miguel blinks.

Smoke curls around Guerra’s fingers as he takes another drag, the cherry of his cigarette glowing. “You’re not from here,” he prompts, waving the smoke away with his hand, wrist relaxed as he holds his cigarette loose between two fingers, palm upturned. He hugs his bent knee with his other arm, leaning forward a little now, tilting his head. “Where did you say again? Florida?”

Miguel hadn’t said, but knows his Spanish subtly marks him as a foreigner in this town—his accent Caribbean by way of the USA.

Most people he's run into just take it as a given that he’s a transplant. An American, come down to see the sights, or else here from the nearby city where he’s working. Overstayed his welcome, maybe. Stranded, perhaps, lacking a passport; maybe that’s why he’s relying on their kindness, Miguel guesses that some people tell themselves.

Sometimes, he spins a yarn about it. Usually, they don’t ask.

“Does it matter?” he says with a shake of his head now.

“Guess not,” Guerra says with amusement. “But you’re selling your ass in my town, so something went wrong.”

An understatement.

Miguel snorts and climbs to his feet, letting the blanket Guerra has placed over him slip away as he pads across the tile floor to where he’s sitting. He notes that Guerra observes his approach with a flicker of interest beneath that unbothered expression, and when he comes right up to tower over where he sits, the guy looks up with a faint smile, head tilting back against the wall beside him.

“I liked it more when we were talking about the World Cup,” Miguel says, snatching the stub of a cigarette from Guerra’s fingers and bringing it to his own mouth.

Guerra’s still-parted lips curve, eyes tracking Miguel’s movements in a way that Miguel imagines he can feel, just as he had that stare against his back. Then again, he’d felt that similar paranoia walking the rural roads under cover of night months earlier, and no one had been watching him then. “You’re more interesting than football.”

Miguel lifts his eyebrows—imagine that—as harsh smoke fills his lungs. The shit down here is cheap as hell, scraping through his chest and making his throat tight as he redirects, “Your town… you the boss around here or something?”

The corners of Guerra’s lips lift higher at the tease, exposing canines that look more pointed—wolfish—than Miguel remembers. Letting his hiked leg slide down, Guerra moves his ashtray onto the seat behind him as he perches forward instead, cornering Miguel into the V of his legs as he reaches out. His hands are warm and dry against Miguel’s hips, and he tugs him closer with intent.

“Around here?” Guerra says, indicating their immediate vicinity with a tilt of his head. He scans Miguel's face with that sly expression still firmly in place, mind clearly veering down a path that spells a continuation of their earlier fun, and Miguel smokes one slow drag after another, each breath getting easier as he regards Guerra in return.

He has an eyelid that droops a bit, but under the rough edges of his appearance, there’s a guy who could maybe clean up nice—who’s maybe even pretty, Miguel thinks, watching the blink of Guerra’s eyelashes.

He’s calm as Guerra smooths his hands around his sides and down over the curve of his ass. Not about to get spooked by some groping, though Miguel also doubts that’s what Guerra is trying to do.

Intimidate him, that is.

Nah. But there’s some guys—

Miguel’s done some analysing;

There’s some guys who want his mouth because they’ll take any mouth, and maybe there’s some bonus to it, getting head from a guy like him. Even slimmed down from the months on the lam, he’s a recognisable sort of handsome, if not necessarily a conventional kind. Miguel knows his lane. Has learned when the guy whose dick he takes into his mouth just wants to feel like hot shit.

Guerra’s not one of those guys.

Maricón.

Nicotine buzzes in Miguel’s head and under his skin, pushing back some of that haze from the shots Guerra’d bought him earlier.

Resting a hand on his shoulder to steady himself, Miguel squints down through the smoke that swirls between them and then disperses toward the window. “Should I take the silence for a yes?”

Guerra’s shoulders do a little rise and fall, and as the cigarette begins to reach Miguel’s fingertips, he gives it a pointed look and Guerra reaches back accommodatingly, grabbing the ashtray and holding it out to give Miguel somewhere to get rid of the thing.

Stubbing out the cig and blowing out that final stream of smoke, Miguel feels his lungs rejoice when the next breath comes in clean, and he’s struck by the consideration as Guerra twists to place the ashtray back on the seat

At the bar, he had bought Miguel food, too—not just drinks—like he could tell Miguel’s stomach went empty sometimes. Besides the sex and the chat, though, Miguel hadn’t been able to clock what it was that Guerra had wanted from him. Even now, it seems like there’s something else; he can’t shake the thought that Guerra is hovering. Fucking waiting for something to happen, as though the plan hadn’t been to simply open Miguel up with his mouth, fuck him hard against the sheets, and then dip.

What else?

Round two, at least. Surely.

Reaching out, Miguel’s hand curls under Guerra’s right arm. Pulling him out of his seat is as easy as a gentle squeeze of his bicep and a small guiding tug.

There’s intrigue in Guerra’s eyes as Miguel pushes him down by the shoulders—puts him on his knees.

The hands that had been reaching for his hips when Miguel grabbed Guerra now have reason more than ever to hold him there, and Guerra stares up, a pleasant smile on his lips as Miguel runs his fingers back through his hair—curves his hand down to cradle the nice angle of his jaw, thumb brushing the plush redness of Guerra’s lips and feeling the tickle of his mustache.

Miguel feels the soft kiss against his fingers right before he lets go, the brush of lips featherlight. “Suck me,” he says, and the gleam in Guerra’s eyes turns into an outright flame, lust coloring his expression the same way it had when Miguel had emerged nude from the shower earlier.

A quiet thrill swoops low through Miguel’s gut now as he watches Guerra’s fingers curl around his cock—watches him bring it soft into his mouth.

That easy.

His blood rushes south, the wet heat around his cock seeming to intensify as it hardens, growing more sensitive to the swirl of Guerra’s tongue and the firm hug of his lips.

First dick Miguel had ever sucked himself had been his friend Reynaldo’s—a kid he’d grown up with, competed with, picked up with girls with. That winter after he’d come back from Miami, there’d been a bit of a dry spell. Girl he’d maybe been seeing at the time, Maritza, was pissed at him for one reason or another, leaving him to instead spend a weekend high and drunk with his homeboys—or with just Rey, in the end, everyone else knocked the fuck out.

“I told him…” Miguel gasps as Guerra’s tongue flicks over the slit of his dick and he swallows him deep—takes him to the base with velvet ease. “Fuck… Said if worst came to—yeah, like that, sweetheart. I’d suck his dick, if he sucked mine. We’d known each other so long, you know? Ah—shit, that’s good.”

He can feel the occasional tickle of Guerra’s mustache hairs as he blows him—feels it especially as Guerra brings his mouth off of him to lift his dick and kiss down the shaft, to the base, sucking on his balls until it pulls a low groan out of him.

Blowing Reynaldo, leaning over on the couch with one hand still clutching a beer bottle, had been a wet affair. Miguel had spilled his fucking drink when the buck of Rey’s hips had hit the back of his throat, making him choke—scramble up to puke his guts up in the nearest receptable—someone’s shoe.

“Never got the blowjob back,” Miguel muses, not sure what’s prompted him to detail all of this—usually it’s the other guy rambling, but… it’d been easy to talk to Guerra at the bar, too, offering an edited version of all his travels which had brought him south to that moment before he could think better of it. The guy had seemed interested enough, anyhow, in the tales of hitchhiking and waiting for the cover of dark to move. The talking hadn’t put him off wanting to fuck Miguel. “Next day, acted like we didn’t remember.”

Guerra chuckles as he mouths along his dick, hands massaging warm circles up the back of his thighs and over his ass.

“Poor little Alvarez,” he murmurs, before swallowing Miguel down, the sweet, enveloping heat of his mouth unrelated to the sudden blaze Miguel feels light up over his skin.

His body stutters between pleasure and alarm as the air seems to leave the room—what little air there had been, anyway.

The night is still.

Grabbing Guerra’s shoulder, Miguel shoves him back with a dizzying drop of his heart into his stomach as he realises that this—this is where that odd, lingering atmosphere had been leading to.

Paranoia blossoms in his mind; the way Guerra had swept up to him down at the bar—it’d been no stroke of luck, had it?

“Who are you?”

Sitting back on his heels, Guerra licks his lips, eyes still trained on Miguel’s cock, one hand curled around the back of Miguel’s leg. The touch scalds now, and not so much in that pleasant way. “You don’t want me to finish taking care of that for you?” he asks softly, ignoring the question.

The huff of his breath feels somehow cool against Miguel’s wet, aching cock, and the flickering notion of Guerra’s mouth returning to his dick sounds like music to Miguel’s ears.

He shakes his head fiercely, feeling his pulse speed in a new way. “How the fuck do you know my name?”

The guy kneeling before him now? He’s never seen before tonight. He’s sure of it; would remember that face. Would remember the playful drawl that had teased him at the bar—those eyes that roam slowly over his body now. The tongue that darts out to swipe over his lips again, craving his cock.

And God, Miguel wants to give it to him. Wants to sink into his mouth and forget.

His mind flits through all the possibilities anyway, caution overriding his arousal. Had he said his name? Had there been a broadcast showing his picture recently? Are they searching for him this far south now? Could someone have sent Guerra? Does he know somebody?

Guerra leans in again, wordless, and his lips brush against Miguel’s cock, facial hair tickling delicate skin.

“Who are you?” Miguel demands again, voice tight as he tries to shift his stance. His weight goes from one foot to the other, but he can’t step back. Doesn’t want to, his breath short in his chest as he watches Guerra’s lips part more daringly around his dick again, sucking playful kisses up his length, having received no pushback.

“Nobody,” Guerra says calmly, turning his head to trail those soft, mouthing movements against Miguel’s thigh as his hand strokes up where his mouth had been. “You told me your name.”

Miguel stifles a groan, pleasure pushing up his spine—making him want to stand on his toes as Guerra squeezes his cock and licks a broad stripe up the junction of his bony hip, mouth then returning to his dick.

His head bobs, and Miguel can feel his confusion starting to settle complacently into lust, watching his erection slip in and out of Guerra’s skillful mouth.

“My last name?” he chokes out stubbornly.

Guerra grips his thighs—his hips—his ass, swallowing him deeper—eyelashes fluttering.

There’s a hum.

He pulls off wetly, breath ragged. “When I fucked you earlier.”

Miguel swallows hard.

The shine of spit on Guerra’s mouth seems to highlight the blushy redness of his lips, which curve as he strokes a hand over Miguel’s dick again, clearly enjoying taking measure of his arousal—thumbing the head of his cock and stringing away the pre-cum. “Asked if Miguel was your real name. You said yeah, remember? Miguel Alvarez. Or maybe you don’t recall.” He smirks. “You were distracted.”

Miguel bites the inside of his cheek, wishing he had another cigarette to take away the tense edge to his pleasure as Guerra takes him into his mouth again, the hollow of his cheeks highlighted by the overhead light.

Goddamn.

Fingers dig into Miguel’s ass cheeks as his hips sway with the bob of Guerra’s head—the suck of his mouth.

“Bullshit I told you,” Miguel rasps, and catches the upward flick of Guerra’s eyes through his lashes right before he reaches down, grabbing the guy by the sides of his head. He should push him off—get to the bottom of this—find out how fucked he is only:

He’s already been fucked, and he’d liked it. Liked Guerra’s cock pushing thick into him, driving him into the sheets. He’d fucking moaned for it. Moaned like a whore, gasping in pleasure with every thrust.

Fuck!

A moan rises into the air now, buzzing around his dick as Miguel thrusts rough into Guerra’s hot mouth—hears him gag wetly, body tensing and hands flying up to squeeze Miguel’s forearms without actually applying any force toward fending him off.

His jaw is slack for Miguel, tongue pressing up against his shaft as he fucks Guerra’s mouth, searching for—

“God.”

Something that’s not quite pleasure—is dirtier, darker—fills Miguel’s veins, and he—

Shit, he can’t do it, a frightening thrill to his actions that he doesn’t recognise—that makes him pull out, breathing hard. Saliva trails between his cock and Guerra’s mouth for a moment, the connection breaking a split second later.

“Tell me the truth,” he grits out.

Doesn’t fucking matter but he needs to hear it if shit’s going to go down like this. Wants to know who he’s fucking.

“God,” Guerra echoes instead, chuckling breathlessly as he wipes his mouth. “That’s a newer word.”

“What?” he says, and Guerra looks up.

Reaches up, seizing Miguel’s wrist before he can step away, startled.

His grip isn’t tight, anyway, but it seems to lock—pushes away the idea of wrenching free. “Oh, just forget it,” Guerra tells him, laughing and—

It’s an infectious kind of smile, one that comes with a tilt of his head and a lick of his lips. Pink lips. Flushed from—

Miguel feels his own blush heat a ring around his neck and he looks down.

He’s already hard.

“You want me to take care of that?” Guerra teases in a low voice, letting go of Miguel’s other hand as Miguel huffs through his nose, liking the sight of Guerra sitting back on his heels.

He shuffles closer, nodding his chin forward, anticipation crackling in his belly. “You gotta ask, sweetheart?”

Warm hands grasp the backs of Miguel’s thighs and he tilts his head as that sweet mouth surrounds him—soothes his aching need.

Frankly, Guerra hadn’t been the one Miguel had set his hopes on at the top of the night… He isn’t the type Miguel would’ve expected to approach him, either, but…

He’s familiar, in a way. Like a guy Miguel might’ve known back home. And they’d fucked, even though Miguel hasn’t slept with a guy since high school. That had been nice, too, Guerra pushing Miguel onto his back with a wicked grin.

Above him, the light flickers and from below rise the soft, wet sounds of Guerra’s mouth working him over.

What time is it? Miguel wonders with a dazed chuckle that swells into a gasp as the wet slide around him gains momentum.

He could sink into Guerra’s mouth forever.

“Shit, why don’t we make it two nights?” Miguel rasps, reaching down and threading his fingers through Guerra’s hair, absorbing the heat of his scalp.

“Why not three?”

Miguel laughs, knuckles paling where he braces the sink even as his body jolts forward with each thrust, his lower abdomen bumping up against the edge of the bathroom counter.

“Can you afford it?”

Chico licks the back of his neck, velvet tongue feeling almost cold against Miguel’s heated skin. “Can you?” he murmurs, and his eyes meet Miguel’s in the mirror, sly—molten with lust. “Could your body take it?”

Miguel can see his own face colored from the heat of it all—Christ, it’s hot, and he’s got that vanity still, even months away from Oz and half-starved at one point.

The arousal in his furrowed features is practically written in gold, dazzling, his lips parted to huff out his pleasure. He likes seeing himself like this—sure as hell beats the gaunt cheeks and wild, animalistic fear. Mexico’s been good to him.

Damn good.

Behind him, he sees Guerra leaning back, chest glimmering with sweat, and he grins, feeling deranged by his desire for the guy—watching his eyes drift down as he pulls back and drags Miguel’s ass out by his hips, biting his lip, exhilaration written in his own features.

Miguel groans at the stretch of his body—at the snap of Guerra’s hips, his cock filling him, throbbing inside of him. He hasn’t slept with a guy since high school but Guerra’s been making it plenty obvious that he’s been missing the fuck out.

“I’ll clear my schedule—we can find out,” he says, and Guerra laughs, his smoldering gaze snapping up to capture Miguel’s in their reflections as the sound of flesh slapping flesh grows sharp and rapid in the echoey bathroom.

Pap pap pap pap.

The friction burns good, running that tightrope between pain and bliss, and Miguel rides each thrust—clenches against Guerra and rocks back on his dick, bracing against the counter with his elbows now, a low moan drawing out of him.

His reflection falls out of view as his head dips between his shoulders and he feels the cooler air around the sink basin rising up to meet him.

Sweat drips from his face as Guerra slams forward—sends stars shooting into his vision.

“God,” Miguel gasps as he feels Guerra’s chest slick against his back, lips closing against the curve of his neck as pleasure pulses in his veins and—

“You’re not from here,” Guerra notes, rolling off Miguel but not going far.

They’re both fucking damp with sweat as they lie there on the bed, panting and staring up at the ceiling. The domed light flickers, glass speckled with dead insects.

Christ, Miguel thinks, dazed.

Guerra’d fucked him hard, too—hadn’t said much at all while he was pounding Miguel’s ass—nothing but a few firm, quiet instructions and muttered encouragement which, damn, shouldn’t have seemed as hot as it had, but hell, if there’s anything Miguel’s learned about being on the run, it’s that he’ll take good where he can get it.

Now it’s done and Guerra seems chattier, too. Softer, like getting off has unwound him, or maybe there’d been some anxiety to it, their sex a transaction. Now, he rolls on his side, propping himself up on his elbow and resting his head on his hand with a hint more of that easy familiarity from earlier, picking Miguel up at the bar down the street. He peers down at Miguel, face still gorgeously flushed. “Where are you from? Florida?”

Miguel knows he must sound American, or at least from somewhere beyond this small town. He shakes his head, heaving a contented sigh and stretching his legs out with a groan. The elation of a fucking good orgasm is still coursing through his veins, and Guerra reaches out, playing with the mess splashed against his stomach.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You're in Mexico selling ass. Something went wrong,” Guerra points out, bringing a cum-covered hand to his mouth and licking his fingers.

Maricón.

Miguel stares and Guerra clearly senses his dumbfoundedness—may have been trying to provoke a reaction, even, because he flashes a wolfish grin and only places his hand against Miguel’s abdomen again, stroking over the muscle, doubling down.

“There’s no big story, though,” Miguel says after a beat.

Guerra looks dubious but doesn’t push. “Alright. Do you spend the night?” He’s offering. Giving Miguel a persuasive look, some of that charm creeping back in.

Fuck.

Miguel’s heart leaps. “It’ll cost a lot more,” he says first, as if he knows what he’s doing. As if he’s done something like this before.

Blowjobs for a quick buck? A lift? Yeah, he’d started to do that a while back. But he hasn’t fucked a guy for somewhere to sleep before. This is all brand fucking new.

Something had been different about Guerra, though; maybe it was because it hadn’t been until Miguel had spoken his price out loud that Guerra had even seemed to realise there would be a price. He’d hesitated before agreeing to pay. Now he’s offering a bed to sleep in.

“Name it.”

Miguel gets up on his own elbows, leaning over to Guerra’s ear to whisper the number, softening the blow with his most charming grin. “But we can have sex as many times as you want. Just want a couple hours of sleep.”

Guerra lifts his eyebrows. “Nah, don’t worry. I plan to sleep.” He cocks his head. “Deal. I’ll give you the money for just now—give you the rest in the morning,” he says, and rolls off the mattress, picking his way around the floor where their clothes are strewn and making a show of placing a wad of bills from his wallet into the pocket of Miguel’s jeans.

“Okay?” he says, letting the jeans drop back to the floor.

Miguel smiles a little, a bit of a flutter in his stomach as Guerra rejoins him on the bed, making the mattress dip. As rough as he looks—scruffy-faced, long-haired, a little unkempt even back at the bar—there’s a certain charisma to Guerra, too. He’d fucked Miguel hard, yes, but not without easing into it. Just likes it rough, Miguel supposes, though he immediately second guesses that assumption when Guerra crawls over him and leans in gently, pressing his face against Miguel’s neck, lips brushing his skin.

“Do you kiss?” he asks, breath tickling Miguel’s flesh.

His heart drums a happy beat. He’d missed that, during the brief foreplay, Guerra’s mouth exploring his body but never meeting his lips. “Sure.”

“Good,” Guerra says, though he doesn’t lift his head—presses soft kisses down Miguel’s neck to his collarbone instead, working him into a fuzzy warmth with soft nips and licks that trail down his chest.

He cleans off the rest of Miguel’s abdomen, which—

Should be gross but again only registers to Miguel as disturbingly erotic, his hand curving around the back of Guerra’s head as he laps the cum and sweat off his belly and then sucks a kiss below his navel, mouthing along where the dark hairs start to trail south.

Okay, Miguel supposes, lying flat again and humming his satisfaction as the caress of Guerra’s hands and mouth continue downward. So it’s going to be like this—sweet, like they’re a regular hook up. He guesses that’s what Guerra had wanted in the first place, anyway.

He had been the one to put money on the table—not that he regrets it, when Guerra’s clearly willing to pay, but…

“You’re really beautiful,” Guerra murmurs, his mustache tickling the soft skin on the inside of Miguel’s thigh as he gets down there, mouth on the sensitive skin, his cheek and then hair skimming past Miguel’s dick. “I bet you get that a lot, though.”

Breath catching in his chest, Miguel stares up at the ceiling. “Been a while,” he admits, and then groans as Guerra’s head turns, and his mouth envelops his cock. “Christ…”

There’s sweet, damp heat and it’s been so fucking long since he got his dick sucked, but he’s still goddamn spent—couldn’t get hard for the world, though the feeling of Guerra’s mouth around him feels damn good anyway. He has no doubt Guerra could probably suck his cock like a pro if only he was ready to get hard again, working his tongue and hand into it as he fondles Miguel’s balls and sucks his tip.

“Gimme a couple minutes, sweetheart,” Miguel says, to which Guerra chuckles, breath blowing cold against his damp dick before he crawls back up to lean over Miguel, hands planting to either side of his head.

The expression on his face is searching, so Miguel takes the moment to search back, observing the slight downward slant of Guerra’s right eye—the droop of his eyelid. He imagines he’d have made fun of the guy if they’d grown up on the same block. Shit, he wasn’t a good kid, and he’d had his own insecurities buried deep.

Guerra seems to be thinking along the same lines.

“Are you gay?” he says, which is not what Miguel expects at all.

His eyebrows shoot up.

“Or is it just for pay?” Guerra follows up, suddenly grinning, making it clear he doesn’t care either way, his head tilting as he sways a bit against his hands.

“What do you think?” They’re alone, but somehow discussing it aloud, without mincing words, make Miguel’s face feel hotter than it had when he was actually getting fucked up the ass.

Gay?

Shiiit.

“I think…” Guerra’s eyes roam fondly over Miguel’s face. “I think you like my mouth.”

Miguel grunts, soothed a little by the non-label of the answer. He won’t deny it, either, the memory of Guerra’s lips against his back accompanied by a wash of pleasure, slicked fingers slipping into his ass at the same time. “And your hands,” he offers.

“My cock?”

He swallows hard and then laughs, Guerra joining in, eyes twinkling in a way that stokes the warmth in Miguel’s belly. “Yeah, you’re, uh, you’re not bad with it. Definitely… left an impression.”

A leer crosses Guerra’s expression. “You don’t sound sure. Should I show you again?” he teases.

“Couple minutes,” Miguel reminds him.

“I got a couple of minutes.” Guerra says, and dips his head, kissing Miguel’s collar bone—sucking on the bony ridge as he lowers himself onto his elbows, mouth roving over Miguel’s chest again, words muffled against his skin.

“You’re so fucking sexy, you know that? You’re damn beautiful… Like a work of art, Miguel…”

Miguel chuckles, throat feeling tight as a prickle of excitement begins to build in him anew, spurred on by the heat of Guerra’s attention—his stream of murmured praise.

Soon enough:

“Look who’s fucking back,” Guerra crows.

Miguel snorts, covering his anticipation with a roll of his eyes as he gets on his elbows again and glances down at where Guerra is already readjusting his position, spreading his legs apart and kneeling in the V.

He looks fucking striking there which is another thing that…

Should be odd, right?

Miguel’s been with guys before, but he’s never exactly been attracted to them—just turned on by what they were doing. At least, that’s what he’s always figured. Not like he has a huge sample size to draw from.

Ariel had been pretty like a girl, long black hair highlighted brown from the Miami sun, clothes girlish, too; he’d even agreed that it barely counted—that fucking him was like sticking it in a girl, even when Miguel was on his knees sucking his cock. And Reynaldo’s been Miguel’s friend since they were seven years old—he doesn’t count, either, even if he’s not bad looking at all.

The men who’d paid Miguel before…

He hadn’t made any attempt to remember their faces.

But Guerra?

Yeah, Miguel likes the way he looks—especially here and now, situated between his legs, sun-browned skin still shades darker than Miguel’s own tan, body lightly muscled, and broad chest dusted with a sparse pattern of hair. He has hair long enough to to be tucked behind his ears—to fall over his shoulders, silky and dark, but he’s no Ariel. Not androgynously slender and waifish—not androgynous at all, with that whiskery goatee. Under the dim ceiling light, Guerra’s forehead and cheekbones are highlighted, the straight edge of his nose contrasting the roundness of his brow bone—the almond shape of his eyes.

There’s something almost pretty about him, even with the facial hair, but he’s a man, no wishy-washiness about it. No getting around it.

Miguel’s skin prickles as he sees Guerra produce a small blue bottle seemingly out of thin air and he shivers at the crisp snap of it opening, the idea of Guerra taking him again more than a little fucking appealing.

And by the dart of Guerra’s tongue out, swiping over his lips, Miguel knows he’s not alone in his anticipation.

He grins as Guerra shuffles closer and wedges his thighs under Miguel’s own, helping to tilt his hips open, and then leaning up first to finally—fucking finally!—kiss his mouth.

It’s an open-mouthed affair, casual and sloppy, like they’ve kissed a thousand times before—like Guerra’s lips belong against his lips and their tongues are well fucking acquainted.

Miguel’s heart soars and he cups Guerra’s neck, pressing eagerly into the kiss that leaves them both breathless. His lips buzz as Guerra presses their foreheads together, their noses brushing as he presses a finger down between Miguel’s legs.

The sound of his breath hitching rattles in the narrow space between their faces, and then Guerra’s kissing him again, mouth moving with a controlled mess as he pushes a slick finger into Miguel’s ass, arm trapped between their bodies.

Arousal spikes through Miguel—makes his toes curl. He’s still stretched out from before, and a proud thrill courses through him as he takes Guerra’s finger—Christ, fingers, Guerra quickly coaxing in another—with little more than a moan, that first burn of intrusion quickly melting into familiar, undeniable pleasure.

Miguel tilts his hips toward the pressure filling him, sighing against Guerra’s mouth as the crook of his fingers starts to hit that good spot he remembers. After the way Guerra had fucked him earlier, this has to be a fucking tease, designed to make him go a little crazy, accompanied this time around by the playful suck of Guerra’s lips around his tongue.

His breath ghosts over Miguel’s face when he breaks away, the heat trapped between their bodies quickly making his skin slick again.

“Taking it real good.” Guerra smirks.

Flushing, Miguel only nods, biting his lip as Guerra rubs inside his ass, wrist flicking, fingers twisting a little as he pushes in—strokes deep, to the knuckle.

“Like your touch, remember?” he says, trying to go for cocky. It’s always been difficult for him to be flippant during sex, though, and Guerra’s middle finger flicking against his G-spot leaves him twitching, his own grip on Guerra’s bicep tightening as that first taste of a scalp-tingling rush swells through him.

“What else? Remind me,” Guerra teases. His hand moves rhythmically, and there’s a look in his eyes that’s so fucking fond, it almost doesn’t make any sense.

Blood roars in Miguel’s ears, his eyes fixed on Guerra. “Uhh...” Knows what Guerra’s waiting for him to say, but he’s feeling damn shy about it, considering the fingers currently playing in his ass.

It’s just like—he’s not—

Well, maybe.

Miguel’s head swims, the sight of Guerra’s naked, waiting body below him gaining new appeal as his eyes catch on the movement of the hand not currently fingerfucking him.

It’s on Guerra’s dick, lazily stroking his erection.

“Say it.” Guerra pulls away—leaves Miguel clenching on nothing, breath stuttering.

Oh, what the hell.

“Fuck me,” he says at once, hips bucking needily, eyes fixed on the boner in Guerra’s grip, thoughts flooded in a lustful haze, remembering the weight and thickness of him inside earlier. “Want your cock inside of me.”

And he feels every bit a puto saying it, but then Guerra is climbing up on his knees, hands coming under his thighs to push his legs further up—make his spine curl as he holds Miguel behind the knees and he guides his cock down.

Guerra glances up to meet Miguel’s no doubt needy gaze as he teases the thick head of his cock against Miguel’s stretched hole, and their eyes lock.

Guerra’s own eyes are dark with lust—those dark pools the last thing Miguel properly notices before stars burst into his vision, Guerra fucking into him smooth—fucking to him deep, sinking into his body like a homecoming.

A strangled noise rises to Miguel’s lips as his breath leaves him, and it’s delicious agony, that pressure that pushes into him—fills him—pulls him into the riptide of a wonderful haze.

Blood wells up from his broken skin, gushing crimson and free—

He comes back around with a dizzy, euphoric feeling, sensing the tickle of Guerra’s gaze against his face even before he opens his eyes.

Even now, even after their shower together at the start of the evening, there’s still that funny, earthy smell to Guerra, like the wilderness Miguel'd slunk through countless times to aid his escape to here. Like autumn decay.

Miguel breathes the scent in like he’s taking his first deep breath of fresh air.

“What do you do for a living?” he asks, opening his eyes. As expected, he comes nose to nose with Guerra, who grins, brown face shiny with the post-fuck glow.

“Are you looking for a different job, Miguelito?”

A hand curls above his head against the pillow, fingertips combing gently through his hair.

He rolls his eyes. “This ain’t my job.”

“No?”

“Don’t change the subject, man,” Miguel says. He’d rambled enough about himself earlier, and sure, maybe it’s the lingering afterglow talking, his mind currently tuned warmly in Guerra’s direction, but he wants to keep that intimacy going. “Just want to know more about you,” he supposes, glancing past Guerra to the window.

Still dark. Still night.

He’s glad.

“I was born further south, in a village in Chiapas,” Guerra tells him, mouth curving. “You know where Chiapas is?”

“Sure,” Miguel says vaguely. “Place with all the jungles.”

Guerra’s amusement grows, but he doesn’t call bullshit, gentle touch turning into a playful tap on the temple before he shifts onto an elbow and leans over Miguel. “My grandmother was a medicine woman—raised me after my parents died in a fire. When she passed… I left.” He touches Miguel’s hip, hand playfully tracing up the curve to his waist before he smooths his palm over his lower abdomen.

Miguel swallows hard, recognising the faint edge of rue in those words. “You travel a lot?”

“I have no anchor, yes.”

“Like me.”

Guerra snorts in agreement, drawing a circle against Miguel’s abdomen, eyes turned away, watching his finger.

Just as well—Miguel stares at Guerra’s profile without interruption, watching the flutter of his eyelashes with every blink.

“Yeah, except you’re going south, aren’t you? And I’m going north...”

Miguel shrugs. “You ever think about settling down, then? Get married or some shit? Start a family?”

He watches a soft crease come and go between Guerra’s brow before the guy glances back up, hand stilling as a curious expression comes over his face. “Is that what you’d like? A family?”

Miguel shrugs. “Yeah, man. I don’t know. Always… Nah, I mean.” His heart starts to thud, thinking about his baby—guilt rushing in. He hadn’t wanted his baby until it was too late. Growing up, the idea of family like that, a mommy and daddy and baby, had seemed so fucking abstract, he’d never given it much thought before the vague assumption that one day he would fulfill that step in life.

When Maritza told him she was pregnant, all he’d thought about had been himself. How it was too soon—how he’d barely fucking had enough time to kick around and do his own shit. Now he was supposed to be a father? Shit.

Clearing his throat, Miguel says, “Someday, you know?”

Being on the fucking lam as a escaped convict, he hadn’t exactly put much thought into it, either, still busy looking over his shoulder. He guesses, though… Yeah, maybe.

When there’s enough distance between him and Oz, if he finds the right girl…

Tangled up in bed with Guerra, though, it feels fucking ridiculous to be thinking about all that.

“What about you?” he says. “You want kiddos?”

Guerra snorts. “Nah,” he says, swift and easy in a way that Miguel has never understood.

“‘Cause you fuck guys?”

The amusement in Guerra’s eyes goes sharp, a leer crossing his face. “I didn’t hear any complaints,” he teases, deflecting.

“Don’t have any,” Miguel says. His bones feel liquid, body more hollowed out than usual after a good fuck, and he bites his lip to keep from grinning at the memory of Guerra inside of him, nailing him against the windowsill and making the ash fall from his cigarette and into the alley outside with each thrust.

Sitting at a bar earlier in the night, he hadn’t expected things to wind up here. His first plan—that pretty brunette girl with her gaggle of wide-eyed friends—had fallen through with a single whisper of My father would kill me if I brought a boy home.

There’d been something familiarly friendly about Guerra when he’d dropped into the seat beside Miguel, flashing a grin, though—had sort of reminded Miguel of the guys back home in the barrio, chill and chatty. And he’d been tired of sleeping on the street.

Why not fuck a guy?

Hadn’t done the deed since high school—blowjobs for a ride south—for money, didn’t count—and beyond the pragmatic aspect of Guerra being willing to open his wallet for Miguel—shit, once he’d realised Guerra was trying to make him laugh while they chatted at the bar—that he was being flirted with—he’d softened up a bit. Had figured he might actually enjoy the company and the sex.

If even a guy as handsome as you can strike out, where’s the hope for the rest of us?

Yeah, his ego had been the first part of him to take a liking to Guerra.

“The first time I saw you…” Guerra says after a moment, leaning over. His mouth finds Miguel’s chest—his collarbone, lips closing around the jutting bone, sucking.

Miguel huffs, feeling his heart starting to hammer in returning excitement as Guerra rolls closer, arm curving around his front, hugging him close as his mouth roams over his chest—up to his throat, sucking wet kisses and leaving a prickling impression everywhere he goes as he works Miguel back into a fuzzy warmth.

“Yeah?”

“Wanted you.”

Shit, Miguel hadn’t even noticed Guerra at first. Has no idea, even now, if he’d already been at that small, outdoor bar down the block with its deeply yellow lights and creaky white stand fans, or if he’d arrived later—had watched Miguel from afar as he’d danced by the old-timey jukebox with that girl who’d eventually admitted it wouldn’t be possible to go anywhere more private.

“Yeah?” The light feeling in his chest pulses warmly. “Why’s that?”

“You’re beautiful,” Guerra replies easily, and lifts his head, meeting Miguel’s eyes with a smirk.

He swallows hard—hasn’t heard something like that in a fucking while.

“Ain’t so bad yourself,” Miguel says.

Guerra has one eyelid that droops but it does little to mar his good looks, a kind of prettiness in the almond shape of his eyes and the round curve of his brow—the slope of his cheeks—the pout of his mouth.

A bit of Guerra’s hair is falling onto his forehead and so Miguel reaches up, pushing it back with the rest of his long locks, fingertips catching against Guerra’s jaw on the way down.

He gets the message loud and clear—tilts down to meet Miguel in a languid, open-mouthed kiss, their murmured conversation quickly replaced by the wet exchange of kisses.

It’s sweet—like they’re a regular hook-up, which is maybe what Guerra had thought they would be, flirting just to flirt and then seeming to hesitate when Miguel had brought up the topic of payment earlier.

Miguel doesn’t regret taking the guy’s money, though, even if the attention from Guerra flatters him more than from those other guys he’d sucked off or let suck him off. Maybe that’s why when, just as the slide of Guerra’s tongue against Miguel’s is making his dick twitch, he feels a swoop of disappointment as Guerra pulls away, turning and sitting up.

“What, you got somewhere else to be?” Miguel tries to sit up, too, staring at Guerra’s back, and finds—fuck, he’s wearier than expected, room running circles in front of his eyes as Guerra twists around and notices him—

Reaches out to grab his shoulder and steady him—lower him back to the bed.

“You should eat something before we go again,” Guerra says, smiling a little as he looms above Miguel again, cupping his cheek. “I took a lot out of you earlier.”

Miguel snorts, reaching up and holding the hand against his cheek. “Hey, man, any time.”

The words make Guerra beam, and he decides cheerfully, “I’ll get you some more food. Your blood sugar’s low.”

“What I get for drinking on an empty stomach,” Miguel agrees, rolling his eyes. It’s a fucking sweet gesture, he thinks privately, and it’ll mean he gets the bed all to himself for a bit of dozing.

As Guerra gets up and searches out his clothes from a pile on the floor, Miguel chews his lip, a sudden restlessness jittering in his gut. He doesn’t really want Guerra to go, petty as it may be. It’ll only be for a little bit, he admonishes himself even as he doubts, “Is anywhere still open?”

“The motel has a kitchen,” Guerra says.

“Is it open?”

Guerra snorts, zipping up his dusty chinos and strolling back over, resting one knee on the edge of the bed as he leans down and smirks. “For you, honey? I’ll find a way.”

And then he’s bending down for another kiss, him slow, Miguel eager and licking, reaching out to grasp the nape of Guerra’s neck as he tastes the inside of his mouth—feels the amused indulgence in how Guerra sucks on his lip like maybe he suspects that Miguel doesn’t usually kiss the guys he sees.

Like maybe he knows that this is different.

Miguel’s still using Guerra to make some coin, sure, but he genuinely likes the guy, too.

This could be something, he keeps thinking. This could be more than one night.

“I got a sweet tooth,” Miguel informs him, pulling back and folding his hands behind his head.

“Yes, my prince,” Guerra deadpans, though his eyes twinkle as he pushes off the bed again, heading for the door. “I’ll be back soon—don’t wander off.”

Miguel barks laughter at the idea, amusement still swirling after the door closes.

Above him, the ceiling light flickers and he squints up at the domed glass, which is speckled with dead insects.

Idly, he wonders how bugs always manage to get inside but never manage to find their way out again; don’t they remember how they got there?

Clearly fucking not.

There’s one dot up there that’s still moving, though, he realises.

“Good luck,” he tells it in English, looking away again after a few seconds, knowing it’s futile to expect it to escape.

Shit, maybe it likes being in there.

Down across from the foot of the bed, the bathroom door sits ajar, leading into the darkened room. Low blood sugar or not, he should probably take the opportunity to piss and clean up while Guerra’s out, Miguel thinks.

Common decency, right?

He can still get up and move around, anyway, just wearily. Sliding out of bed and onto his feet, the blood rush to his head has him wobbling in place for a moment, vision spotting in and out before coming back entirely.

Christ.

It’s a similar story as he staggers into the bathroom, flicking on the light and then narrowing his eyes against the glare of the green fluorescence.

An image flashes before Miguel’s eyes, forgotten a moment later—the feeling of déjà vu—not, he thinks, from having been here earlier, washing away the sweat from the evening, plunged into intimacy with Guerra shortly after arriving in the motel room.

It’s…

Well, he’s not sure.

He blinks, looking across the tile floor to the bathroom counter. It’s tidy except for a small wastebasket next to the counter, and Miguel stumbles over to the john and eventually just sits. Pisses like a girl, vertigo making the room wiggle around him even when he knows there’s no chance of him falling over.

“Goddamn,” he mutters into the echoey room, and then sits there some more, waiting for the world to stop spinning so wildly before he pushes back to his feet to wash up in the sink.

This time around, his body seems ready to accept the change in position. Only a couple spots in his eyes accompany him to the sink where he splashes water against his chest and neck and gets it all over the counter where—

Shit!

Miguel blinks, stares, and then shakes his head as he remembers a moment later that nah, he’d very much let Guerra peel him out of his ratty jeans and t-shirt in the main room. His shit is strewn across the floor at the foot of the bed, not on the counter like he’d suddenly been convinced.

Water still trickling down his skin, Miguel’s eyes snap down to the counter sitting level with his hips and he runs a palm along the rounded edge of the laminate counter, back and forth a couple of times, eyes taking in the beige rock pattern below—scanning even lower, over the tile floor beneath him and the wastebin near his feet, a small, empty blue bottle of some kind inside.

He’s still in the bathroom when he hears the door of the motel open, though the moisture on his skin has long dried.

“Miguel,” Guerra calls—rather, he sings. “I hope you like pineapple juice, because the bottled water was—yo.”

As Miguel leans in the doorway of the bathroom, Guerra’s grin turns into a blink of surprise. He’s got a white plastic bag with a yellow smiley face on it hanging loosely off his fingers, and he flings it and whatever is inside onto the bed as he sits at the end, laughing.

“What’s with the face?”

Miguel can imagine what Guerra’s looking at—can feel the furrow in his own brow, tension in his jaw as he frowns, unable to shake the suspicion that… what?

He’s not even sure.

But…

He thinks back to the start of the night—no—too far—

He thinks back to Guerra coming out of the motel office with a key and a grin, jingling it at Miguel and gesturing at him to hurry out of the shadows—to follow him to the outdoor stairs into the building.

Guerra’d gone to take a shower and Miguel had… joined him, after a few minutes of sitting boredly on the bed.

Had kept it cute under the spray.

Just touching, wet hands over soapy skin—getting a good look at Guerra’s body. His dick.

He hadn’t washed his hair—had tied it up off his neck, an escaped strand wet against the back of his neck when he’d turned, letting himself out first with a smirk. Giving Miguel that bit of privacy before he’d gotten dressed again, wondering why he’d bothered at all—was all going to come off again.

But maybe by then he’d been looking forward to it more—the getting undressed again. The tease of it all.

They’d finally kissed right there by the window, after the game of eye tag. Both furtively and openly checking each other out—smirking and looking away every time they caught the other.

Guerra’s mustache had prickled Miguel’s upper lip, his mouth soft.

They’d fucked there, too, eventually. Had done the deed as Miguel leaned out the window to smoke the cigarette offered to him some time in between making out and chatting some more about all kinds of dumb shit again. The World Cup. American tourists. Fucking Reynaldo, and how Miguel had given him a blowjob when they were teenagers.

Guerra had coaxed Miguel open with slicked fingers, mouth against his shoulder, asking him every step of the fucking way if he was okay before replacing his fingers with the thick heat of his cock. Their quiet, drifting murmurs had turned into Guerra’s growled encouragement and Miguel’s gasps, then, his body trembling against the pressure of Guerra’s every thrust, the dark window before them absorbing the noise.

Hadn’t been anything strange about it, Miguel thinks, hadn’t been anything eerie, only novel.

Fun, too.

He’d missed flirting that way Guerra had with him, all bumps of their shoulders and brushed fingers and knuckles—teasing touch, a lustful glint in his eyes under the spray of the shower.

He’d missed sex like theirs, exhilarating and just a little bit rough. Just a little bit unnerving, and then good. All good.

“I wasn’t gone that long,” Guerra teases, oblivious to the cogs whirring in Miguel’s mind as he leans back on his elbow and reaches for the plastic bag.

From inside, he pulls out a drink and something wrapped in tin foil, and then a plastic container of various colorful fruits, cubed and ready to eat.

Miguel drifts unsteadily up to the bed—puts a knee on the mattress by Guerra’s hip and just looks at him.

His face, the light dancing in his dark eyes.

Kind eyes, Miguel thinks, and the unsettled feeling in the back of his mind settles a bit as he reaches out to cradle that angular heart of Guerra’s face, tilting it up to kiss.

He feels Guerra’s delight—tastes his tongue—senses him putting the food in his hands aside as Miguel urges his mouth open, deepening that kiss. Kissing by the window, it’d been Guerra to lean in first, opening up that option before Miguel had really decided how he wanted to play it. Could’ve said no back then—could’ve said I don’t kiss, except that Guerra’s lips had been so soft, and it’d been so long since Miguel had kissed anyone beyond a few flirtatious pecks.

Guerra’s palms go sliding up Miguel’s naked back now, touch dragging dry but cool from handling the refrigerated items. Soothing.

Goosebumps ripple up Miguel’s back as he gradually pushes Guerra onto his back and leans over him, holding him down by the shoulders.

They break apart, breathing ragged, and contentment and desire glitters in Guerra’s eyes, his body utterly pliant as Miguel pushes his arms up over his head and holds his wrists there.

He almost feels bad ruining the image of Guerra’s satisfaction with it all, but he looms and presses his thumbs into Guerra’s wrists anyway, determined up until that moment the question he wants to ask gets stuck on his tongue.

How long have I been here?

None the wiser, Guerra chuckles, that warmth in his eyes shining up at Miguel—openness that had met him downstairs, too, looking past his unkempt appearance and his skin and bones—

Nah, Miguel may be a little lightheaded, but he’s fit—has bulk. Healthy muscle he’ll use if he has to.

“Oh, you’re ready to go again?” Guerra teases.

And there’s that paranoia still twisting in Miguel’s gut, but it’s fading, those thoughts of fuck, has his face been on TV recently? Does Guerra know who he is? Could someone have sent Guerra?

It’s fucking crazy, isn’t it? The notion that the fucking Federales or someone might have send a guy undercover to fuck him or—or something.

Who the fuck are you?

Also a stupid question.

“Think I’d better eat something first,” Miguel says shakily.

Guerra grins, eyes raking down Miguel’s body as he leans over Guerra’s head, fingers closing around that chilled bottle of pineapple juice before he sits back.

The drink is more like a mix with mango and orange, he finds, tastebuds meeting the tropical sweetness eagerly. He can’t remember the last time he ate, but he feels better almost instantly after the first few gulps, a reinvigorated feeling washing through him, Guerra’s hand massaging his thigh as he feels his Adam’s apple bob.

Chuckling, Guerra props himself up on an elbow and touches a hand to his chest next. “Slow down, sunshine. You’ll choke.”

Miguel swallows hard, chest heaving as he brings the bottle down and caps it, shivering a little at the mix of the chill and the acidic sweetness. “Whole night, right?” he says, glancing down.

A coy look creeps into Guerra’s expression, and that hand on Miguel’s chest slides down, stroking over the muscles of his abdomen. “Yeah.”

Nodding, he climbs off of Guerra, fingers tightening around the juice bottle like it might help him when his head still spins a little at the sudden movement. His balance returns pretty quickly, though. “Okay. Well, we can go as many rounds as you want, but I was at least a couple hours of sleep. And don’t fuck me while I’m out, either. You got proof you can cover it?”

Guerra snorts. “The cash I’ve thrown around already ain’t proof enough?”

“Nah.” Miguel reaches for the fruit container on the box, sitting on the bed beside Guerra as he lets out a dramatic sigh and fishes into his pocket, pulling out an old leather billfold.

“See?” He turns it left and right.

“Open it.” Miguel opens the plastic meanwhile, setting the juice aside to pinch up a mango wedge in his fingers. It’s slimy in his hands—wet as he brings it to his mouth, biting softly into the flesh.

Smirking, Guerra slips two fingers into the wallet, something playfully sexual about the way he stretches it open, presenting the contents to Miguel. “See?”

Chewing slowly, Miguel scans over the number and colors of the bills within.

“I’ll give you half upfront,” Guerra offers—plucks a bill for Miguel and flutters it in the air in front of him.

Miguel rolls his eyes, snatching it into his hand—snatching the next, and the next—

“Quit playing, man,” he says, snickering as Guerra begins throwing cash into his lap. He eats a sliced strawberry, grinning, and holds a piece of honeydew out to Guerra.

“Happy?” he says, shaking his head and stowing his wallet.

Miguel pretends to think as he chews, naked and covered in pesos. “Did you say something about going again?”

“I’ll let you get your energy up again before I take it from you.” Guerra replies, climbing up and turning, looking down at Miguel with a bit of a leer that makes him laugh as he eats.

The food has him in a better mood, the confusion in his mind clearing, paranoia dissipating. Why he’d thought Guerra—Guerra, the guy who’d bought him food and is going over to the window to smoke while he lets Miguel eat in peace—was suspicious is a mystery.

Wasn’t even Guerra he’d felt oddly towards, Miguel muses as he sets the fruit container on the bed and plucks up the money around him, wiping juice covered fingers against his thigh. It had simply been an unnerving feeling of déjà vu. A groundless sense that he’s been here before.

Must’ve been the doze, though.

Must’ve been that little black out after coming hard, throwing off his sense of time and space.

Across the room, Guerra is lighting up another cigarette, sitting statuesquely still in the wooden chair by the window.

Miguel gets up, feeling steadier on his feet now as he goes to where his pants are strewn on the ground and stuffs the wad of bills into the pocket, glancing up as he straightens up—catching Guerra’s appreciative stare.

“You’re not hungry?” Miguel asks, nodding toward the bed.

Guerra’s lips twist as smoke streams from his nose. “No,” he says. “How do you feel?”

Miguel grins, going over and sitting at the edge of the bed, picking up the fruit again, helping himself to a bit of kiwi. It’s tart. He feels his face pinch, and Guerra cackles.

“Besides that? Good. Better,” he says, adding quietly, “Thanks.”

“Guy like you should be sturdier on his feet,” Guerra teases, shrugging—It’s nothing. “The fuck’s all that muscle for otherwise?”

Miguel looks down at his body and snorts as he eats a piece of melon. Yeah, he’s firm muscle now, but… “You know, I was starving not too long ago,” he muses with a shake of his head. “This is a feast, man.” He regrets the slip a second later, but Guerra doesn’t pry.

“All the more reason to keep up your fucking health,” he declares instead. “It’s good you ain’t starving. The sex would suffer.”

Scoffing, Miguel glances back up to glimpse the twinkle in Guerra’s eye before he turns, searching out the white ash tray that’s sitting on the windowsill behind him.

“You’d have even less energy,” Guerra goes on, turning forward and hiking up one leg, placing the ash tray on his other thigh. “Wouldn’t be able to fuck me when I’m finished smoking this—”

Thunk!

The ashtray slides off the fabric of Guerra’s pants and crashes to the ground, breaking undramatically into three large pieces.

“Shit,” Guerra mutters, looking over the edge of his seat.

The sound of cracking ceramic rings in Miguel’s ears. “You want me to fuck you?”

Guerra looks back up, mouth curving. “Ain’t up to it?” he says, bringing his cigarette to his lips. He takes a deep drag, cheeks hollowing dramatically, mouth still pursed as he lets his hand fall away. Smoke floats from his mouth in a ring, the rest streaming from his nose as he breaks into a grin.

Slowly licking juice off his fingers, Miguel shrugs coolly, betraying none of that interest he feels flaring, heating the back of his neck. “Didn’t say that. Just making sure.” He closes the fruit container with a plastic snap—sets it aside, pushing to his feet. This time, the lightheadedness is minimal—will be entirely gone soon enough, he figures.

“That ain’t the usual request?”

Miguel shakes his head, fingertips skimming idly down the center of his abdomen. “Lucky first,” he says, like Guerra isn’t only the second guy he’s ever fucked, the first being during a teenage summer fling in Miami. And that guy had worn dresses sometimes, when it was just him and Miguel. Barely counted.

He strides over to Guerra, joining him at the window and breathing in his second hand smoke as Guerra shifts in the chair like there’s room enough for the both of them to sit there.

Yeah right.

Miguel just grins, though, pushing Guerra’s bent leg down and making sure to sidestep any shards of porcelain before he dumps himself sideways into the guy’s lap, throwing an arm across his shoulders for support.

“Miguelón,” he grunts, though he instantly wraps an arm around Miguel’s back nevertheless and leans back in the chair so Miguel can sit more comfortably in his lap as he switches his cigarette to his opposite hand.

“Speaking of,” Miguel says with a smirk, nodding his chin forward.

The cig is nearly a stub as Miguel reaches out and plucks it from Guerra’s lips, watching that tongue dart out Guerra watches him pull a deep drag and sigh smoke out through his nose.

The dry acridity burns his lungs and throat in a familiar way and as the smoke swirls between them, Miguel grins, feeling one of Guerra’s hands over to his abdomen, tracing his muscles—skimming up to the planes of his chest, fingers brushing over and teasing one of his nipples.

“When the cigarette is finished, right?”

“That’s right,” Guerra replies.

As the smoke clears, dissipating or drifting toward the window, Miguel can clearly see Guerra’s eyes traveling over his chest, down, sliding over his groin and up his thighs to his knees. His skin prickles warmly at the feeling of Guerra’s attention.

Christ, he really fucking likes the guy.

Miguel bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to smile and failing.

“You…” Guerra says in English, which makes Miguel snicker. “Fuck me. Soon.”

“What else can you say?” Miguel teases, and Guerra kisses his shoulder, the bristly hair of his goatee leaving that telltale buzz behind.

“Yes... No. Thank you… Hello.” Guerra nuzzles his face against the crook of Miguel’s neck, breathing in deeply as he hums, “Goodbye.”

Miguel frowns, extending his hand to flick ash onto the floor past Guerra’s legs. “Don’t need that one yet,” he says, and pinches the cig in between lips as he reaches down, tipping Guerra’s face up by the chin. “We still got a while.” And as he breathes in, inhaling cigarette smoke and that faintest, earthy scent that surrounds Guerra, the cigarette burns down to the filter.

Miguel holds it between them, smirking—Look what time it is.

Reaching past Guerra’s head to stamp out the stub against the windowsill for good measure, Miguel asks, “So, Guerra, sweetheart, you got another name? A Christian name, I mean?”

Guerra’s hand is back to caressing his abdomen, now trailing down his hip, too—up his thigh, resting on his knee as he shrugs. “Not a Christian one, no. Does it matter?”

Miguel shrugs in return as he settles back into Guerra’s lap, reaching with his now free hand to fiddle with a gold chain around Guerra’s neck. “Guess I just wanna know who I’m fucking.”

“You already know.” Guerra’s lips curl, his eyes scouring Miguel’s face. “You can call me Chico, though,” he offers.

“Chico,” Miguel repeats with a laugh.

“What?”

“Nah, it fits you, I guess.” Miguel shrugs again, grinning as he runs his finger back and forth along the thin gold chain around Chico’s neck. “Chico Guerra,” he murmurs, and tilts his head, hand curling around Chico’s necklace now—giving it a harsh tug. “Wanna bet I can make you forget it?” he teases, pulling Chico’s mouth to his.

He likes feeling Chico’s responding grin against his mouth, a curve before the hot, hungry exchange of lips of tongue smooths it away. Chico hums happily as their heads tilts and the limits of making out in a chair reveal themselves, Miguel tipping right out of his lap when Chico presses into one of their kisses, sucking on Miguel’s lip.

“Fuck!”

Chico’s arm tightens around his shoulder at the last second, but it only serves to soften Miguel’s slow, awkward tumble onto the floor.

Laughter rings between them, and the broken ceramic sits nearby, but Chico just follows Miguel to the hard ground and leans over him, capturing his mouth once more and drawing another sweet, deep kiss from him where he’s propped on one elbow, naked skin against the cool hardwood.

“Careful,” Miguel says, warning muffled against Guerra’s mouth.

It’s difficult not to be swept up with his enthusiasm.

Miguel clasps the back of his neck and holds him steady as they kiss some more and then Chico’s mouth slides down his jaw, lips trailing kisses down his neck—finding that spot behind his ear that’s so fucking sensitive.

Miguel gasps—huffs afterward, when the aroused sound rings in his ears, damning. “How ‘bout we take this to the bed?” he says, shivering as Chico’s teeth graze his skin. It sparks an unusual feeling of arousal in his belly, that hard scrape followed by Chico’s soft tongue.

Motherfucker has moves, Miguel thinks, sliding his hand down Chico’s spine and rubbing circles against his back, grinning.

And yeah, he guesses that someday, when there’s more distance between him and this evening, there’s a chance he’ll look back on it all as simple desperation or pragmatism—making a buck off Chico just like he had those guys who’d agreed to take him hundreds of miles on their routes, or give him a cab to sleep in after—but hell. He knows the truth in this moment; good and bad, being on the run has freed him from his old life—freed him from his own reputation—from the rules of what can or can’t be done.

Pressed against the windowsill earlier, Chico’s heat against his back, bulge grinding against his ass, that thought of Chico’s cock actually slipping inside as he’d smoked had gotten his own dick stirring.

It’s stirring now, too;

He’s a maricón. And it doesn’t fucking matter.

Miguel grins as Chico pulls away and makes moves to get up. “Careful,” he says again.

The shards at their feet are sidestepped as they climb to their feet, Chico holding Miguel’s hand.

“Not dizzy anymore?” he asks, thumb rubbing over Miguel’s knuckles.

“Nah.” Miguel’s good, his only swaying being the intentional tilt toward Chico to steal a few more rough kisses from him before tugging him across the room—pushing him onto the mattress first and then looking down at him. “Huh.”

Chico lays there where Miguel’s pushed him, legs hanging off the edge of the bed, hair pooled behind his head. “What?”

“Something ain’t right with this picture,” Miguel declares, climbing onto the bed and straddling Chico’s middle, hands sliding up, under his tank top. “Now what the fuck could it be?” Hands skimming over Chico’s warm skin Miguel bends down, pressing his face into the crook of his neck and breathing in that odd scent of the outdoors.

Forest floor.

He feels the expansion of Chico’s ribs as he inhales himself, breathing in Miguel in return, his arms sliding loose around his back. Miguel feels his lips curve as he rubs his face against Chico’s skin and he sucks a kiss against his jaw, against his throat, against his clavicle.

“Be easier to fuck me with my pants off,” Chico suggests, amused.

“Yeah, s’probably it.” Miguel says, and leans down, crushing his mouth against Chico’s and earning a soft groan from him, noise buzzing against his lips.

They kiss hungrily, Chico slowly shifting higher up the bed and Miguel following—grabbing his arm when he makes a move to pull his shirt off.

“Let me,” Miguel growls, catching his wrists and pinning them over his head until he feels Chico’s body yield to him as he licks back against his tongue, huffing amusement when Miguel sucks on his lower lip.

Spit trails between them as they part moments later and Miguel grins at the sound of their heavy panting—at the sight of Chico’s flushed face as he eases away from him only to get the overshirt off his shoulders—hike his tanktop up over his chest.

“You know it’s supposed to go over my head,” Guerra says, gazing up at him with that gorgeous expanse of his skin exposed, abdomen and chest undulating with every ragged breath he takes, his pants hugging low on his hips from their shifting around.

“Shut it.”

Miguel laughs, hands going magnetically to Guerra’s body at the same moment that Guerra reaches for him, shoulders lifting off the bed as Miguel bends down.

Their mouths meet in ravenous kisses as they grapple at each other, Chico trailing sparks against Miguel’s sides—squeezing his waist, tracing the ridges of those muscles around his ribs, and groping the broad expanse of his back, blunt nails dragging.

Hands slipping between them, Miguel plies at Chico’s chest, fondling the flat slope of his pecs and sliding his touch up and down the front of his body—over poking ribs and a softer belly. Chico’s hips arch up eagerly when Miguel dips his fingers below his waistband, but there are those pesky buttons he doesn’t want to deal with yet.

Miguel shifts instead, sitting back on his heels and moving to straddle Chico’s thighs as he lowers his head to pepper kisses down to his sternum—tilt his head to drag his mouth over the firm plane of his chest, nipping here and there—pressing his teeth into flesh.

A hand combs over his head, pulling a warm feeling up his spine.

“The first time I saw you…” Chico sighs. “I wanted you.”

Miguel smiles against Chico’s chest, teasing his nipple with his tongue, tracing the brown around it. “You told me already.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhm.”

Chico’s hands find Miguel’s face, then, tilting his head up to meet his gaze, which is friendly if hard to read, lost in some thought Miguel can’t imagine. “Guess it’s been running together,” Chico says after that pause.

Miguel snorts, tilting closer, pressing his mouth gently to Chico’s and then urging his lips open, tracing the shape with his tongue before exploring inside.

That he likes kissing Chico is an understatement; he loves it—the warmth, the intimacy. He alternates playful and sincere in perfect measure, thumbing over Miguel’s cheekbone as their heads nod and tilt together with every languid exchange.

Miguel shivers and pulls away for air—

Smiles, as Chico’s mouth drifts to his chin and his jaw, waiting for that moment Miguel leans back down to capture his mouth again, lips closing around his tongue.

Laughter trembles between them, something hornier simmering just below their laidback fooling around. It makes the air seem to crackle—makes Miguel shift higher, advancing that next step to kneel over Chico’s waist and sit his weight back as he braces an arm beside Chico’s head to kiss him.

Chico’s hands massage slowly up and down his sides, inviting his body to rock with each petting motion, and Miguel’s dick drags against Chico’s exposed belly, the slow friction getting him hard as he sucks Chico’s lower lip into his mouth and then pulls away slowly, pressing a thumb to Chico’s chin as their eyes lock and Chico gives a little nod.

Miguel trails spit down into his open mouth, skin heating further as afterward, Chico’s eyes curve and he licks his lips, swallowing dutifully.

“You gonna put anything else in my mouth,” he says, trembling with silent laughter, his face flushed from the kissing, lips pink. “Or you just want me to lie here?”

Leaning back Miguel scoffs, pushing Chico’s rumpled tank top off over his head and then giving his shoulders a shove. “Yeah, stay there,” he says, dismissive because he knows he’s got Chico’s rapt attention under that lazy grin he’s wearing. Taking his time because he knows Chico won’t move, and because it’s no fucking secret, his own growing arousal, heaviness between his legs. His dick bobs stiffly as he gets up on his knees, shuffling around and looming over Chico.

“Stay here or stay still?” Chico asks innocently, though the grin he casts up at Miguel from between the V of his legs is anything but. “Cause I gotta warn you—I’m not good at staying still,” he says, his hand coming up to grasp the back of Miguel’s calf, eyes darting over Miguel’s body from his upside down, low angle view.

“Bullshit.”

Miguel smirks, dragging his dick over Chico’s smiling cheek and earning a scoff of disbelief, though a split second later, Chico’s mouth parts, tongue coming out as if to catch a taste of Miguel’s cock, defiant.

A thrill zings up Miguel’s spine, skin tingling.

“You can stay still as fuck,” he mutters, and there’s an image of Chico in his mind’s eye, sitting gorgeously nude across the room, striking in his stillness…

Miguel blinks, coming back to the feeling of Chico’s huffed laughter against his dick while he licks a bold, broad strip up the underside.

“But do you want me to?” Chico teases, lifting his head now and using one hand to gently lift Miguel’s erection—press it to his belly, as he brings his mouth to Miguel’s sack, mouthing at his balls—pressing his tongue right up against them and pushing a thick, electric current of arousal up his body.

Miguel feels his scalp tingle.

His breath hitches in his chest, and for a moment, he just sways, languishing in the soft suck—that attentive, swirling tongue and the erotic noises Chico’s mouth brings that raise the damn hairs all over his body. Make his nerves dance, anticipation an itch just under his skin.

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he breathes. “Your money.”

The remark has Chico pausing, hand on Miguel’s leg sliding up the bend, tugging on the back of his thigh as his eyes lock with Miguel’s.

Chico nods, and the act feels more permissive than instructive.

Letting out a rough breath, the next firm tug of Chico’s hand against his backside sends Miguel stretching eagerly forward, toward the growing bulge in Chico’s pants.

He braces one hand against the bed, and below him, he feels Chico’s hand curl around his cock, angling it down—playing it against his tongue.

Miguel shudders—feels his cock slipping into Chico’s mouth, deeper and deeper, and he rolls his hips, breath quickening as Chico’s lips hug his girth.

Pleasure washes over him and floods his own intentions with that surge of liquid heat. He leans over the tent in Chico's pants and presses his mouth against it, finding solid heat through thin fabric, mouthing along the shape of Chico’s erection as Chico moans around his cock.

The bob of his mouth quickens as if to urge Miguel on—invite him to do the same, which he’s more than happy to get to in his own time, measuring Chico’s arousal thoroughly through the fabric before he moves a hand to flick open the buttons—drag down the fly.

At his hips, Chico’s arms hug his ass and thighs for an anchor as he strains up, taking Miguel deeper—making his skin prickle—making Miguel’s hand shake just a little as he reaches to peel open Chico’s pants—pull his dick out, pushing down his underwear.

“Fuck.”

A sweet wave of dizziness sweeps through Miguel, saliva pooling in his mouth at the sight of Chico’s cock. It’s flushed with need, thick and dark and nestled in black hairs, a bead of pre-cum welling up at the tip. Miguel lowers his head, wanting to swallow Chico as deep as Chico is taking him currently, and lets out a fucking groan, pure want driving him forward.

He hasn’t…

Hasn’t looked forward to sucking cock since that time with Reynaldo, and he’s got a better idea of what the fuck he’s doing, now—can enjoy it as well as make it enjoyable as he takes Chico into his mouth—feels that heavy thickness, that mix of thin skin over firm length, and ventures to swallow him to the base.

His own dick is warm and wet in Chico’s mouth, and as Chico’s lips tighten around him, it feels like two puzzle pieces slotting together.

A powerful circuit of lust and arousal, closing.

Fucking heavenly.

A heady musk fills Miguel’s head as he braces forward again, taking Chico deeper, breathing him in and letting the complete entanglement of their bodies overwhelm his every sense—him in Chico and Chico in him, an intimacy in their connection that makes Miguel’s pulse race—makes him moan as the hairs under Chico’s belly tickle his nose—as the weight of Chico’s cock in his mouth stokes his arousal.

The faint bitter-saltiness of pre-cum mixes with his saliva, and Miguel’s face burns, head swimming with Chico’s taste, with his scent, his trembling feel, and that sound of the soft, wet sighs below Miguel as Chico sucks kisses against the base of his cock, fondling his balls with one hand while the other presses firm against his ass, nails digging when Miguel sucks Chico’s tip, swirling his tongue around the head.

Rough groans intermingle with the huffs of their breaths, and Miguel fucking aches as Chico’s mouth moves to his shaft, licking up the underside while his own dick throbs in Miguel’s mouth, head prodding the soft palate off his throat, challenging him not to choke.

“Oh, shit,” Chico gasps, and his hips pulse up, shallow but making Miguel’s eyes water nonetheless—making his insides both threaten to revolt and shudder with need. “Can you take it, Miguelito?”

He hums. His neck strains.

“Take it,” Chico says, and Miguel bobs his head fiercely, drool trickling from his mouth—making him slurp obscenely as he does what Chico says: takes it. Takes it good.

Chico moans, and there’s a moment before he guides Miguel’s cock back into his own mouth where his face is just pressed up against it, nose poking the junction of Miguel’s hip in a way that sparks dirty inspiration.

Goosebumps ripple up his back.

“Get up,” he says, phlegmy spit still stringing between his mouth and Chico’s dick as desire pushes him up on his knees, cock still half stuffed down Chico’s throat.

He looks sorry to let it slip from his shiny lips entirely, blinking in pink-faced confusion as Miguel pulls away and flops onto his back, giving his shoulder a push.

“Switch,” he explains.

Chico rolls up slowly, so Miguel adds, “Want you to sit on my face, sweetheart”—words which get Chico grinning in delighted surprise.

Satisfaction buzzes under Miguel’s skin.

In those short few seconds of him kicking off his pants and shoes and maneuvering his body over Miguel’s, Chico somehow manages to give off the impression of a man skipping for joy and it has Miguel chuckling in his own excitement as Chico kneels back over his chest, heavy cock dragging damply against him.

“Get me good and wet for your cock, okay?” Chico says smirking knowingly over his shoulder, the curve of his ass inviting Miguel to shift closer

“You just concentrate on keeping me hard,” Miguel retorts, licking his lips.

“Easy.” And Chico bends back down, curling a hand around Miguel’s dick and bringing it back to his mouth with a loud slurp, his wet heat familiar now.

Miguel doesn’t waste time, either, and even though—shit, even though he’s never eaten ass before—ex-girlfriend never let him—said it was nasty—said just ‘cause they did it in pornos didn’t mean anyone did it in real life—

He doesn’t hesitate.

Curls a hand around Chico’s hip and arches his own—half to buck into Chico’s mouth, and half to give himself room to shimmy down further—get himself where he wants to be before grabbing Chico’s cheeks and spreading them, tilting his ass down and licking right inside.

Easy, yeah.

He feels Chico shudder as much as he hears it in that enthusiastic moan around his dick.

Miguel licks again, laving over sparse, short hairs and delicate skin. He works the tip of his tongue around a tight muscle—tastes the tang of skin as he swirls his tongue over Chico’s hole.

“Fuck—”

Feels that swear huffed against his dick—feels Chico’s mustache and soft lips dragging against his shaft as he rocks back, letting his back arch low as he opens his hips wider, balls and cock rubbing against Miguel’s chest as his body trembles.

Excitement swells through Miguel at the show of gratification, and hell, he knows how to fuck with his tongue—ain’t that different, burying his face in Chico’s ass and grabbing him at the junction of his hips and thighs to pull him closer.

The strain in his neck eases when Chico leans back, and Miguel’s happy to lie flat again, tongue out as Chico slowly grinds down, riding his face and lulling Miguel into a lustful haze, his tongue skimming up against Chico again and again, tension in his own body twist tighter—

And tighter, until he’s panting hard and surging up, wanting to explore deeper—get Chico soaked.

Pre-cum dribbles over Miguel’s chest; he wears it as a badge of honor, humming as Chico’s mouth envelopes his own dick again.

He groans at an accidental scrape of teeth and presses his teeth to Chico’s ass cheek, hugging his waist and bucking up.

Chico gags—pulls away with a wet noise and slaps Miguel’s thigh.

“Bastard.” But then gets right back to sucking, moaning either because Miguel’s fingers are digging into his flesh, or because Miguel’s still mouthing eagerly at his hole, teasing the rim incessantly but withholding that thrust inside.

Rhythms synced, they pull away at the same time, Miguel flopping back to observe his handiwork while Chico turns his head to suck kisses down Miguel’s dick—to suck a kiss against Miguel’s inner thigh, that skim of his teeth against sensitive skin intentional this time.

Miguel grins, floating in what feels like a daze of warmth as he rides a hand down the curve of Chico’s lower back and over his ass, dragging his thumb against his hole—dipping the tip inside experimentally. He’s got the soft hair in Chico’s crack thoroughly matted with spit, that’s for sure, and he plays shallowly at the rim, watching the muscle flutter before leaning back up to kiss it—relax Chico’s clench.

“Easy, sweetheart.”

He tongues Chico’s hole again, smug pleasure washing through him at the way Chico moans for it—fucking whimpers as Miguel buries his face up between his cheeks once more, gripping his thighs and eating him out until his own jaw and tongue start to ache and Chico’s no longer sucking his cock, caught up in fucking himself back on Miguel’s tongue, fragmented encouragement mixing with the rattle of his breath.

“Oh, fuck, like that, yeah, Miguel—feels so—”

Heartbeat pounding in his ears, Miguel is thrumming with pure exhilaration by the time he gives Chico a gentle push away, gasping for air.

He doesn’t leave a second of hang time—swings a leg over Miguel to climb off and turn around, looking every bit as disheveled and horny as Miguel feels, his pupils blown, face glowing with exertion, and mouth pink and swollen as he grins, murmuring something Miguel doesn’t quite catch—isn’t even sure that it’s Spanish.

There’s no time to ask.

Back on his knees, facing Miguel, Chico leans down and licks the pre-cum off his chest with a broad swipe of his tongue, pushing it into Miguel’s mouth when he crushes their lips together again. That kiss turns into another—turns into another, disjointed and frantic, Chico cupping the back of Miguel’s neck as they trade spit, holding him close.

When he pulls away first, eyes glittering with desire, he squeezes Miguel’s nape, bringing heat to his cheeks.

“Yo, you’re nasty, you know that?” Miguel teases, licking his lips as Chico crawls further up the bed, pushing that old plastic bag and the food to the edge, out of the way.

“It’s good for you,” Chico retorts, laying back on his elbows.

And sure, it could be his enormous boner talking, but gazing down at him, Miguel thinks he’s the fucking hottest guy he’s ever seen—needs no prompting to follow him—to insert himself between his slender legs and tease his dick against his wet hole.

Pre-cum stringing from his cock head, adding to the slick, and glancing up, Miguel catches the tail end of Chico licking his lips, tongue slipping back into his mouth as he smirks.

“And don't tell me you don't get off on it, Alvarez,” he adds quietly, the curve of his mouth making Miguel want to pitch forward and kiss him again. His voice is all smoky grit, a rumble in his chest. “Can feel how wet you are…”

“Yeah,” he croaks, and then pauses, staring down at Chico with a sudden, belated jolt of surprise because When did he tell him his-?

Curving a hand encouragingly over Miguel’s shoulder, Chico misinterprets the hesitation. “Ain’t gonna hurt me,” he guarantees, and Miguel nods, relaxing as he pushes the head of his dick up into Chico, testing his resistance.

“Shit, you’re so tight.”

Crazy tight, Miguel thinks, slipping a finger up to rub inside—coax him open a little.

Everything about it makes him lightheaded, feeling like a horny teenager getting too ahead of himself to know what to do.

Chico lets out an impatient sound and strains sideways, that plastic bag rustling as he nabs a small, blue bottle from it that he hadn’t removed earlier. “Ain’t gonna hurt me,” he repeats with a sly look, handing the thing over.

Something about its presence tickles something in the back of Miguel’s mind.

“You use this earlier?” he asks, opening the lid immediately and squeezing lube into his hand.

He guesses Chico had used lube. Makes more sense than spit, in retrospect, but Miguel can’t exactly recall how they’d drifted from the window to the bed where he’d woken up from that daze, ass tinglingly sore… nevermind when Chico had thrown that first bottle into the trash.

“Wouldn’t want to hurt your virgin ass.”

Miguel snorts.

He can feel the impression of Chico’s cock inside of him even now, muscles clenched as he bends over Chico and lines his dick up. “Ain’t no virgin,” he says and, rutting against Chico’s hole again, slick now, the easy slide goes straight to his head, removing those thoughts of patience and easing in.

He slips into Chico’s tight heat, breath hissing out through his teeth as Chico’s body hugs him and below, his expression twitches gorgeously.

A strangled noise slips out of him, his chest rising as he arcs toward Miguel’s cock, his mouth soon opening and closing in mute rapture, hands dragging down Miguel’s chest, curling around his ribs in a bruising grip.

“Your ass feels amazing, man,” Miguel moans, fire flooding his veins. Sweat begins to pour off him in what feels like sheets; Chico’s body is an inferno. It sets him ablaze as he thrusts deeper—

Doesn’t stop until Chico’s head is tilted back and his throat is bared to him, fingernails pressing crescents into his flesh, legs hugging his hips.

It’s not enough; the brief impulse to dive forward—sink his teeth into Chico’s flesh—comes and goes.

He has to move. Soon. Faster. Harder.

Now now now now.

Groaning, Miguel forces himself to a stop.

Above them, the ceiling light flickers and he hears the plink plink plink of a fly hitting the glass in a panic.

“Okay?” he breathes, bending down to kiss Chico.

He gets a limp, delayed response, Chico’s eyelashes fluttering rapidly before he nods—offers a sweet, chaste little brush of lips before Miguel rises again, surveying the intersection of their bodies.

Even tanned under the sun, his skin is a couple shades lighter than Chico’s—makes it really obvious where his body ends and Chico’s begins.

Miguel tilts his hips back for a second—reveals more of his cock before watching it slide back into Chico, who clenches down just then, groaning fucking sensually, the sound swirling through Miguel’s head, making him dizzy.

Glancing back up, his eyes trail over Chico’s body, taking in every plane and ridge and curve—lingering on his erection, stiff against his belly. Still leaking steadily, untouched.

“I’m good,” Chico breathes, hands sliding around to Miguel’s back, urging him closer.

Miguel rolls his hips, smiling as Chico makes an affected noise and bites his lip. “Okay.” And then he’s sliding back further—thrusting deeper, putting his back into it to earn that clench of Chico’s ass—build out that beautiful friction that feeds fire right back into his belly.

They kiss messily, and Miguel loses himself in Chico’s embrace—in his arms, wrapping around him, blunt nails clawing up his back—and between Chico’s thighs, squeezing his hips so hard with every sweaty rock of their bodies that Miguel’s breath catches again and again.

“You free tomorrow?” he says, and Chico practically purrs in response—fucks himself back up against his thrusts and nips at his neck, teeth gently pressing against his throat as that low sound continues rumbling through him.

Christ, he really is purring.

Miguel huffs out a laugh and leans back, meeting Chico’s gaze and basking in his desire before kissing him again softly—letting their lips brush as he keeps the rhythm in his hips and feels his lower back beginning to sour.

“Let’s make it two nights,” he whispers under the blood roaring in his ears. He feels feverish—feels like he’s fucking soaring as he slows his thrusts—focuses of burying his cock deep and making Chico groan. “Wanna—fuck—stay in you forever.”

The touch, chest to chest, belly to belly, Chico’s cock squeezed between them as Miguel grinds against his ass.

Why not three?

He can practically hear the words spoken in Chico’s voice, but they never come.

“Can’t,” Chico gasps, head tilting back. His hands lift, cradling Miguel’s face as sweat runs down it, and Miguel pushes past his hands to kiss him again—taste his lips.

“You got somewhere to be?” he teases, ignoring his pang of disappointment as he draws back, straightening up and grasping Chico’s slippery legs as he begins fucking him again—a sharp pap pap pap ringing through the air with every jolt of their bodies.

Sweat glistens against Chico’s face and chest and soaks his hair as he grins up at Miguel in between twitching looks of ecstasy. “Nah, but you do,” he says, and Miguel’s hips stutter, a prickle against the back of his neck that comes and goes.

“What?”

Maybe it’s the fucking. Maybe it’s the being inside Chico—best feeling he’s had in fucking years—best sex, too. He doesn’t react with as much caution as he’d expect, though it’s weird as shit for Chico to say that—to say this, chuckling ruefully:

“Guess I couldn’t resist saying goodbye, you know?”

Swallowing hard, Miguel reaches between them, wrapping a hand around Chico’s cock. “The fuck you mean?”

The way he says it makes it sound like they’ve been together longer than a couple hours—like this was a long time coming or whatever.

Sliding a hand over Miguel’s clenched abdomen, Chico groans, arching his hips. “You were so fucking…weak. But you weren’t afraid, so I wanted to help you—give you a fighting chance,” he moans, and suddenly Miguel isn’t in the motel room anymore—is walking along a night round with a discombobulated feeling, feet dragging.

And then he’s in the shadows, watching the skeletal human with the pulsing, golden aura scurry through the edges of his town, unaware of who watches over him—unaware of the men with keen eyes organising a checkpoint on the other side of town, handing out photos.

The night vanishes, and Miguel fights toward the surface of his consciousness, past memories of sharp teeth tearing against his skin—blood spilling into Guerra’s mouth from his neck, from his wrist, from his thigh—

Below him, Guerra’s body remains tight around his cock, and Miguel gasps for air, finding himself back in the motel room he’s stumbled into again and again, always followed with a smile by—

“Who the fuck are you?” Miguel says, and he’s shaking, and he’s still got a hand curled around Guerra’s cock, stroking him off.

The fear comes, and then it washes away, and it’s just Guerra there, offering a reassuring smile, no different from the conspiratorial one that had met Miguel at the bar earlier—days ago. Weeks ago. Months?

“You know.”

“The fuck I do.” He slams his hips forward, squeezing Guerra’s cock, and feels him clench down hard—feels his hips roll up toward him, riding the thrust.

Miguel’s neck prickles.

God, who are you?

Who the fuck—

What do you want—

He’s asked some form of the question a dozen times before and received half a dozen answers.

Chico Guerra.

A man from Chiapas.

A grandson, a son, an orphan.

Nobody.

A man who’s sought him out every night at the same bar. Who’s led him into the motel—who’s watched him shower—helped him, touched him, fucked him lovedhimhealedhim—

Carmen.

The heavy scent of wet earth after the rain fills Miguel’s head as he releases Chico’s cock—wraps a hand around his throat instead, holding firm without pressing

The muscle in his forearm twitches.

Their bodies rock together and the knot in Chico’s throat works furiously against Miguel’s palm.

“You doing it right now?” he demands, panting.

“What?”

“Keeping me calm.”

Sweat trickles down his back.

Chico licks his lips, reaching up and gently holding Miguel’s hand over his throat. Peeling it away. Miguel lets him without a thought. “Yes,” he admits and Miguel snaps his hips forward. Chico hisses out a breath.

“The fuck are you?”

A bead of sweat runs up Chico’s forehead as he throws his head back, labored cackle turning into a groan at Miguel’s next thrust, harder now, the betrayal in his body melting into the merciless drive of his hips.

Nothing more.

Falling over Chico again, Miguel kisses him hard enough to bruise, biting his lip, drawing blood that spreads viscous and tangy between their mouths… the way it has so many times before.

A tingling sensation crawls over his skin as he traces Chico’s lips with his tongue, breathing in his air, rocking into him.

He’s fed on Chico’s blood just as Chico’s fed on his.

Pap pap pap pap.

The image of his bony self, ducking through inky streets in stolen clothes, burns in Miguel’s mind as he jerks away and stares down into Chico’s face.

Blood smears his kiss-swollen mouth and his expression is folded into one at the edge of rapture, mute and overwhelmed and fucking wrecked.

God, Miguel wants to fucking loathe him. Thinks he should, but he just—

Just fucks into him instead, pleasure shooting through his veins as he feels Chico’s legs lock behind him, keeping him close, urging him to grind deeper—torture that orgasm out.

It doesn’t take much.

Just their bodies sliding slick together for a few more beats. Just Miguel’s mouth against Chico’s throat, teeth pressing hard, but not hard enough to break skin.

Chico comes with a rumbling sound in his chest—with a spasm and a jerk of his hips. White spills between them and as Chico’s eyelids flutter, Miguel straightens up—collects a bloody kiss from his mouth before kneeling wide and tightening his grip on Chico’s hips.

“Ain’t done with you.”

He must sense the lack of relief, because he whimpers and tenses even before Miguel begins to rock back into him, hands sliding back to cup his ass.

Above: plink plink plink.

Below: Chico writhes, face contorting into a grimace before he relaxes around Miguel.

Fucking infuriating.

“Yet you don’t want me anymore?” he accuses, throat tightening as he glares into Chico’s edge of bliss and discomfort. Petulance and hurt is the closest he can manage to real hatred, he guesses, because he slows his hips when Chico’s whine is too sharp.

He can’t even fucking hurt him. Doesn’t want to.

Chico grunts, the noise sounding like disagreement as his tongue comes out—swipes over his bruised, split lip—or, not so split, on second glance, even though Miguel can still taste the blood on his own mouth—can taste a small piece of the vitality poured so fucking diligently back into his body, drop by drop.

“Want you plenty.”

“But you’re ditching me?” Goodbye he’d said.

“Kept you long enough already,” he says quietly. “Ain’t right.” He groans—sighs, head tilting back, his conflict flickering in his face, anguish under the pleasure. “You’re becoming like me.”

Miguel licks his lips again—tastes less—and below him, Chico jolts against him as he bucks his hips—fucks deep. “What’s wrong with that?” he growls, an ache in his chest that threatens to burst. Tear his heart right out.

What the fuck are you?

“It’s a curse, Miguelito,” he says. “Comes with a price. Ain’t cheap.”

“I’ll pay it.”

The first time—the very first time they’d met, Chico hadn’t slept with him at all. Had bought him dinner. Had taken him back to the motel to shower and sleep.

“What, you get off on this or something?” he’d asked hoarsely, warily eyeballing the man who’d called himself Guerra as he sat at the foot of the bed.

All fucking night, from the second he’d wandered out of the bar with a cigarette, offering it to Miguel—offering to buy his scrawny ass food, too—Guerra’d had that look in his eye.

Piercing.

Fixated.

He has it in his eyes now, molten like lava, smoldering—

Enamored.

And as Chico gives an overstimulated whine, arching toward Miguel, he feels his own muscles stiffen—feels that tight tug between his legs, an overwhelming need driving his final thrust forward.

Fuck the price.

In his memory, days and nights bleed together now, the same hours played out seemingly again and again in variations that all culminate in Chico pouring into him—drawing out of him.

Blood. Spit. Cum. Swapping life for life. Strengthening and strengthening.

Together.

Miguel chokes on the truth as it floods back to him, the ways that touch had persuaded him to forget—the ways that he’d opened his body to Guerra.

Had he wanted to? Or had that been persuasion, too?

He remembers their first kiss.

It’d been in the morning—that first morning, after he’d woken up to a mountain of food on the bed, and Guerra carefully explaining his choices—salty and sweet, because he hadn’t been sure which Miguel preferred.

“Shit, man. You trying to make me fall in love with you? ‘Cause it’s working,” Miguel had said, sitting up eagerly—hungrily. After the dinner Guerra had bought him, and after a deep, clean sleep, his appetite had greedily returned.

The look on Guerra’s face had been comical—wide-eyed and full of both wonder and alarm which had led to sputtered protests—a rare instance of him becoming flustered, though Miguel’d had no way of realising it at the time.

By then, his mouth had already been full of chocolate concha and he’d felt a strange giddiness swell from within at the sight of Guerra’s blush. “Aw. You’re sweet, y’know that?”

He’d never been blind to eyes that followed him, or ignorant of shy glances, and even if Guerra hadn’t actually touched him all night, he’d still had that look in his eye.

Maricón.

Shit, so what?

At the door, belly full and body clad in the cleaner clothes Guerra had mysteriously acquired for him along with the food, Miguel had grinned and turned to him, happy to show his appreciation, taking his face between his hands.

Why don’t we make it two nights?

Shit, why don’t we make it three?

Now, weeks later, Miguel shakes. Rocks forward desperately—doesn’t get how a guy can nurse him back to health and still do this to him—care for him and not care at all.

“I’ll pay it,” he says again, because he knows about steep prices.

Deals with God. Deals with the Devil.

Below him, Chico gasps, holding him in his eyes, looking at him like he’s the only thing that matters—like he’ll never let him stumble.

But ecstasy steals the breath from his lungs and Miguel does fall—topples over Chico and brings their mouths together once again, stealing kisses while he can—while he remembers—

Why not four?

Chico meets him indulgently, tongue slipping against his.

Why not forever?

“Fuck you,” Miguel bites out, because he knows the way it goes now—knows this time won’t be any different, but it will be the last.

Chico won’t let him pay for it.

But I want to remember—

The words never make it past his lips.

Chico’s hands grip his face, holding him steady as they clash, as hunger and greed make their teeth click and blood begins to flow over Miguel’s tongue again.

Guerra’s not sweet at all.

Fuck you, fuck you, he thinks, panting, and:

“You’re free,” Chico tells him. “Live a good fucking life, alright?”

And—